


holes in your coffin

by parchedmint



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Grey Warden drama, Hurt/Comfort, I have a lot of feelings about Tranquility and nowhere else to put them, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Inquisitor Anders (Dragon Age), M/M, Mage Rebellion (Dragon Age), Mage-Templar War (Dragon Age), Multi, Rite of Tranquility, and all the darkspawn that entails, attempting to follow the plot with minimal direct quoting from in game, i also have a lot of feelings about blood magic and its inherent 'evils', this fic is anti-Chantry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 07:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29996223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parchedmint/pseuds/parchedmint
Summary: Nothing is ever as it seems. This lesson is harder to learn for some than it is for others.
Relationships: Anders & Isabela (Dragon Age), Anders & Merrill (Dragon Age), Isabela/Merrill (Dragon Age), past Anders/Hawke - Relationship, we're shootin for an anders ship but i'm not sure where we'll end up
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	holes in your coffin

**Author's Note:**

> this slapped me in the face one night at like 4 am and hasn't left me alone since. it's messy because I'm messy and I have a lot of feelings about dragon age but I'm too ashamed to show my beta. please let me know if you love it or hate it or fell asleep halfway through. and please!! mind the tags. <3 
> 
> this fic has an equally messy playlist that I listened to while writing. it's constantly changing as I nail down the mood I'm trying to go for with this fic (and trust me it used to be much more maudlin than it is now). feel free to listen on shuffle because it's not organized yet. we'll see if I can work up the motivation to manage more than a few chapters of this, much less a proper playlist. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/33mIjAVVgTNzEDNVvwmrmJ?si=X7nLLtlgQNy69uUwZBEXxw
> 
> thanks for stopping by. I hope you enjoy. <3 I'm @parchedmints on twitter if you wanna chat!!

**7 Drakonis, 9:39 Dragon**

_???_

Tranquility brings with it a peace that Anders has never known.

He remembers being so pointlessly angry, so needlessly upset, allowing his emotions to rage through him at all hours of the day, costing him much sleep and peace of mind. He laid awake through countless nights and seethed with fury and terror, physically exhausted but unable to allow himself rest. On the truly bad days he cried with the strength of it, backed into corners and unable to do a thing but suffer through these attacks. He can’t quite recall exactly what brought his past self such pain - he only knows that he is much better off without it.

Here are the other things Anders knows about himself: he can cook. He escaped from his Circle more than once, and was punished accordingly. He wears his hair pulled back because it falls into his face. He is fairly observant. He came from Ferelden. He used to be a very willful man, to his own detriment and that of others. He has a preference for the color green. He is well-versed in the healing arts; he used to be a spirit healer. He was also an apostate and a maleficar. He is now a criminal, and this is his punishment.

Anders was captured and charged nearly two years ago to the day. He was made Tranquil without a trial and ordered to serve the small group of Templars who branded him as penance for his myriad crimes, some of which he knows about and some he doesn’t. It seems as though the Templars he follows - his Templars, he’s come to call them in private, for they are his responsibility and he theirs - are aware of this, and when they call to him to tend their needs they sometimes reference a time when he caused them inconvenience. Ser Danes in particular gets a strange gleam in his eye when he uses Anders, pressing bruises into his skin as he mutters about making him pay.

His Templars move as a pack, a well-organized group of five men who cut quickly and quietly through the riverland that serves as the border between the Free Marches and Antiva. They are two archers, Sers Pavel and Rice; one dagger-wielding rogue, Ser Finel; and two warriors with massive shields, Sers Danes and Freman. They rotate shifts for watch, hunting, foraging, and carrying the bulk of the supplies when their pack horses go lame in the swamps. Anders walks in their shadows and does whatever else they require, from cooking to polishing armor to handling their lyrium. These and other such activities wear his body down, but they rest fairly often in remote villages to restock and gather news of the growing unrest among the mage population. He is not permitted to wander off alone.

Despite this limitation and the demand on his being and time, Anders finds most of his attention occupied by the beauty in the world around him. His eye is drawn to the colors of the sky, to the patterns in the clouds, to the scattering of flowers that have grown up in the cracks along the abandoned Imperial highway. He pauses to observe the sheets of colorful fabric hanging from windows and catalogues how they differ from the last settlement his small company passed through. He turns at the glint of the sun off copper hair in a crowd, on the tailfeathers of a songbird, on the moondust that makes up the wings of a butterfly by the water. His Templars put their hands on the back of his head and shove when they catch his steps slowing too far, so he has made the effort to practice taking in as much as he can in an instant - the stall lined with bright fruits, the bright banner flapping in the same gentle breeze that dances with the loose hair behind his ears, the automatic smile from the merchant to a potential seller. The collapse of that friendly expression when they catch sight of the lyrium brand on his forehead. Rarely, a flash of something that looks like pity. He soaks in as many of those moments as he can, where they acknowledge each other as simply other people before they catch on to the fact that he’s not a person at all.

He is told to wait, coincidentally next to the fruit stand, while Ser Freman and the others visit a village elder’s home or tavern to seek information about potential apostates in the area. They are far away from any Circles now and every mage is at risk. The weight of the Chantry has approached this small town in the form of five armored men and one Tranquil. Anyone caught lying puts the whole town in danger. He would know - he has seen Ser Finel’s shining daggers held at a girl’s neck before her sobbing mother who neglected to tell them about her mageling son. Just the thought of the memory makes something in his soul chafe, but Anders, having no will or ability to address this, elects to ignore it.

The fruit seller avoids his eyes.

The sun rises higher in the sky. More than once the merchant mutters uncomplimentary phrases and cut-off swears under his breath as the morning crowds wax and wane. Anders’ presence stationed by the fruit stand clearly deters more than one shopper. He would apologize, but speaking might make it worse. He cannot move without risking retaliation, he imagines explaining. But that would accomplish nothing. As it is he contents himself to unobtrusive people-watching, deliberately angling his body away from the stand. A few people gather their courage after he does this and move closer, eyeing him carefully, as though he were a strange and dangerous animal rather than a toothless ex-mage. He can feel his nose starting to burn under the sun.

His gaze slides over yet another face and pauses there. This person is staring back. Anders blinks and refocuses his attention on the young elf. Barely an adult, with a gnarled stick strapped to their back, the elf stands in the shadow of an alley across the market with their eyes locked onto his, wide with horror. Even from here Anders can see that their eyes are a vivid green.

Quite abruptly, the elf vanishes. Anders is left staring at the spot where they once stood, caught up in a strange feeling that burns in his chest.  _Recognition_ , the ragged scrap of breath that still clings to his heart tells him, but he does not truly recognize them. Still…

A hand snags at the sleeve of his dirty grey robes and tugs. His head snaps over to once again meet the stranger’s eyes. They have popped up behind him, half shadowed in the darkness of the alley to his right. Now that they are closer to him he can sense their magic, buzzing over his skin and raising the small hairs of his arms, an echo of familiarity striking him yet again. The elf pulls harder, fingers digging into the fabric.

“Healer,” they hiss, glancing worriedly around them. “Follow me.”

“I cannot,” he says quietly, mindful of the merchant not two strides away and of course, of his Templars ever watching. The elf curses.

“Just - just c’mon,” they say urgently. Anders declines, even when the strength of their next pull forces him to stagger two steps closer to them. “Let’s go!”

“Please don’t,” Anders responds. “We will both be flogged when I am caught.”

“Aren’t you Tranquil,” the elf snaps. “You’re supposed to do what you’re told - ugh.” They screw up their face in disgust. “’m sorry. Never mind. What are you doing here? We’ve been looking for you! We heard that you’d been caught, but they never threw out your body so, so we thought either they were keeping it, which is really gross, or that you were still alive and  _we were right_ ! You can come with us now!”

“I cannot,” he repeats, frowning when the elf’s face falls. “I do not recommend staying in this village much longer. My Templars are searching for apostates and maleficarum.”

“ _ Your _ T-” The elf’s face twists further. “What have they done to you, Healer?”

“Please gather your companions and leave as soon as possible,” Anders says tonelessly, throat working hard. “Do not be reckless. They-“

The elf sputters out a bitter but genuine laugh. “Reckless? Do you  _ know _ me?” A strange look passes over their face, eyes crinkling and brows furrowing when he doesn’t answer. “Y-you _do_ remember me, don’t you, Healer?”

“I do not remember most things,” he replies as gently as he is able in the face of this elf’s heartbreak. Their other hand comes up to grab at his free arm, nails breaching furrows through the fabric.

“Then I’ll make you remember,” they say furiously, choked with new tears. “Just - just come with me and we’ll make this better okay?”

“I can’t go,” Anders states. “If nothing else, they have my phylactery.”

They scoff. “What good’s a phylactery gonna do ‘em if you don’t - er, if you don’t have magic?”

Anders puts a hand over theirs, carefully detangling their fingers from his robes. This mage is so young. Still an apprentice. “A phylactery tracks your blood, not only your magic,” he replies. “I may lack the one, but I cannot help but possess a quantity of the other. Please leave me and go, now.”

The elf snatches their other hand away without him having to pry. “I’ll come back,” they promise, backing away into the shadows. “I swear I will, with the others! They’ll be glad to see you! We can kill those bloody Templars and you can come with us and be safe - there are so many of us you helped back in Kirkwall - it’ll be -“

“Go,” Anders interrupts, firmly but still quiet, “and do not come back. We have no connection any longer.”

“You say that now,” the elf says thickly, and they turn to vanish as easily as they did earlier, in a whirl of brown hair and dusty cloak.

His Templars arrive not ten minutes later, laughing and jostling each other. Ser Danes grabs Anders by the arm and tows him along after them. Anders follows silently, pleased that they did not question him about his day. He would have had to navigate truths and careful untruths, as he cannot lie to the ones who hold his leash.

It occurs to him that he never learned the elf’s name. Good. That makes it easier still.

They camp on the village outskirts that night, rather than staying in the comfort of an inn. Anders doesn’t dare ask why. Instead he sets to work building a fire and slicing root vegetables to cook. This could be easier, he knows, the memory of the apostate apprentice’s magic tingling at his nail beds, but he lacks the magic to make it so, and his Templars never lift so much as a finger to help him. It’s his lot in life and he has nothing else to do. Staying busy doing chores is better than standing in a market for hours doing nothing at all, he tells himself, and is deaf to the tiny voice inside that mutters about the injustice of it all. There is no injustice: he is Tranquil, and he has no desire to tug free his leash from the hands of his Templars. Who else would he give it to? After all, he’s hard to manage. A flight risk, even, though he has nowhere to go. These are the reasons why he stays put when they tell him to, and come when they call.  


The mageling and their party would only be put at risk if he left his party for them. This, he knows well.

“This is all your fault, anyways,” Ser Pavil tells him as he passes out the stew, reclined in his bedroll with a mostly empty wine skin by his arm. “All this walking and rolling through filth and chasing after all these fucking runaway robes. You’ve made a mess of this world, you little idiot.” A scoff. “So  dangerous , were you? Wasn’t that hard to bring you down. It never is. Hey, c’mere, I need your  _ healer’s hands _ .”

He always says this with a grin, as though it’s ever been funny that Anders is no longer able to use his healing magic. There are so many people in the world who fall to something he could have helped, who need the aid magic could easily provide, if only the Chantry loosened the noose on the Circles just a little. But all of this means little to him now. It’s so far away from where he is, from what he is.

Anders is a danger to society. This is why they took his magic. Forget the people he could save, the people he apparently  _ had _ helped save. He was out of control and needed to be brought to heel. And as a Tranquil, he rues as he silently obeys Ser Pavel’s command, he has no will or motive to balk at his chains.

Perhaps it’s wrong to say that Tranquility has brought him peace. It has made him complacent, but his thoughts are never peaceful. 


End file.
